


Ghosting

by Tojin



Category: The Ghost Radio Project
Genre: I have no idea, Other, also what genre is this lmao, the violence isn't super explicit but i figured i should put it there anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 07:18:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14711597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tojin/pseuds/Tojin





	Ghosting

[ Way out in the middle of nowhere, ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0adGUTA4W0) in the back of the beyond, a silver, beat-up minivan drives, rather slowly, down an abandoned freeway. A large roof-mounted solar panel, with a wire running from it under the hood, rattles and jumps as the van moves down the uneven road. The windows are cracked open, to try to compensate for the lack of air conditioning. A pine tree-shaped air freshener, a pair of pink fuzzy dice, and three tarot cards (The High Priestess, The Chariot, and The Hermit) all hang from the rearview mirror. A large black witch’s hat and simple black cloak, both a bit faded from wear, hang from a hook in the back. The rear seats have been removed to make room for a bunch of radio equipment, somewhat obscuring the view out the back window. The driver figures it’s fine though; it’s not like there are many cars to watch for, these days.

Speaking of said driver, she’s currently focusing very heavily on the road in front of her, and hoping the sun will stay above the horizon for just a little while longer. Bandits around here like to come out after sundown, since most people travel at night to escape the heat. “If only I hadn’t gotten such a late damn start today…” she grumbles to herself. She had been over by the Davies’ farm in Fort Thomas, spending the night after she had ferried over replacement parts for their generator from Dragoon, when some idiot bandit had come by and tried to make off with her van! He managed to make it pretty far, too, but fortunately she was able to track the bastard down and get her ride back. By the time that whole debacle was over, most of the day had already gone, and she still had a two hour journey ahead of her. The Davies, bless ‘em, were kind enough to offer her another night at their farm, but she had declined, saying there was plenty of time to make it to Globe before sundown.

She is really starting to regret that decision.

The driver’s eyes drift towards the sole occupant of the passenger seat: a small cell phone, with a wide screen and an extremely beaten-up phone case. The case’s pale blue, pastel pink, and white stripes, though faded, never fail to bring a smile to her face. The phone is charging at the moment. _Thank goodness that charger cable is so durable. Otherwise I’d be lackin’ any music to pad the information. All those obscure, niche little tunes… locked away in somethin’ the length of my hand._ She smiles slightly. _Wild._ She tries not to think about the person that is normally in the car with her, and what might have happened to them. Tries, and fails.

The driver comes out of her thoughts just in time to realize that there are houses on the horizon. Not Globe, it hadn’t nearly been long enough. As she draws closer, she realizes that it’s one of those shitty little housing developments that just seemed to appear, fully formed, in the middle of the desert. She had never been in one before, but judging by the sunset - or lack of it, rather - that would have to change, tonight. The driver nudges her van onto the proper freeway exit, then crosses the bridge into suburbia. Or, at least, what used to be suburbia.

 

The houses are eerily quiet and still. In most other places in her neck of the woods - Peridot, Safford, Tombstone, Bisbee - the inhabitants had stuck around and taken up agriculture, or ranching, or something. Even the people who lived in Portal had stuck around, and they lived in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere. But this place… it’s empty. More than that, it’s practically unchanged. Cars sit in driveways, untouched. Houses are completely whole, with no signs of looting or jury-rigged irrigation systems, or anything to suggest that the collapse had happened at all. Save for the thick layer of desert dust on it all, it’s like nothing had happened. Ever.

The driver meanders her van through the dusty streets, growing more and more nervous as she looks for somewhere that doesn’t make her anxiety ping like crazy. This place is making her metaphorical hackles go up. It’s not natural, the level of stillness here. It’s making her feel… unwelcome. Like the houses are watching her, each one saying, _Go. This is not your place. Leave us, or else._

With that thought uneasily bouncing around her mind, the driver finds a cul-de-sac that on one side has only open desert. She parks the van facing towards it, so that if something happens during the night she can drive away quickly. She hops out of the car (tries not to think about how chokingly thick the dust is here, how still the air, how convinced she is that something is watching her here) and goes around to the back, heaving open the trunk door and climbing inside, into her makeshift radio setup, closing the door behind her. You can’t be a Ghost without radio, after all. Even if you’re not sure there’s anyone listening. And besides, talking calms her down. Goodness knows some calming down would do her good right now.

Everything is pretty much already set up, after the broadcast she did in Dragoon last night, so she puts on her hat and cloak (as is tradition at this point) and decides to just jump right into it, starting off by playing her [ customary intro tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZ-JKUHV-u8). After twenty seconds or so, she turns down the volume on it and starts speaking.

 

“Bienvenidos, bienvenue, bem vinda, yōkoso, willkommen, and welcome to the 67th broadcast of the only real radio show in Cochise County, whose name changes as often as its location does! Right now, though, I think I’m gonna stick with The Witching Hour. A bit earlier than midnight at the moment, I know, but it feels appropriate for the… kinda creepy locale I’m broadcastin’ from. I am your host, Esme Weatherwax, comin’ at you live from 575 AM, SATA code 955-K, podgrid server 9-1-1-Romeo-Bravo-Hotel-7-Echo. I don’t know if these dust-soaked streets have anyone to broadcast _to_ , but damn if I’m not gonna do it anyway.”

Esme scrolls through her extensive music library as she talks. “I know all y’all know me already, given that I’m the only radio station worth listening to around here, but here’s a quick rundown of my whole schtick, just in case we have some new listeners tuning in today.” She holds up her phone and presents it, as though to a crowd, even though nobody can see her. She hopes. “I have here a phone with more than _ten thousand_ pre-collapse songs on it, all of which are obscure, exotic, and sometimes just plain weird. I consider it my solemn duty to spread these tunes around the county, because it’s very likely that if this phone was lost, so would the only survivin’ copies of these songs.” Her voice adopts a dramatic tone for the last part, as though these songs are precious, one-of-a-kind treasures. Which they are, to her.

Esme considers her statement for a moment. “Alright, so the last part probably isn’t actually true, but God knows it’d be tough to find any trace of these things on the Internet, heavily-regulated as it is. The websites I used to collect all this went down ages ago, and I haven’t been able to find replacements or scrape together enough money to buy some properly. So, this is what I’ve got, and I’ve decided to share.”

“Oh, and I also do the usual Ghost stuff. Ferry supplies around, broadcast information, all that good shit. But for right now, it’s just you all, me, and the music. So let’s have a listen, shall we? We’ll start off with a chilling little ditty by Mili, who are perennial favorites of mine, then ease into more sedate stuff as we go. So, without further ado, let’s be off on tonight’s musical journey.”

With quite a bit of ceremony, Esme presses play.

 

[ As the singer’s childlike voice ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlKAAAW2NxU) fills Esme’s makeshift recording booth, she leans back in her chair and heaves a quiet sigh, staring at the ceiling. She can’t really shake the feeling that she shouldn’t be here, that she should instead take her chances with the bandits. She shouldn’t, of course. Everyone knows that’s a dumb idea. But even so, she can’t quite get the notion out of her head. And… there’s something else, too. Something weird, with the song. It almost seems like the volume changes, sometimes…?

 

_Rise from bed_

_For the ones who_ **_sacrificed_ **

_The ones who never_ **_cried_ **

_The ones who haven’t_ **_died_ **

_The ones who are_ **_alive_ **

**_Tonight_ **

 

Nah, it’s nothing. Just nerves. Or else her computer’s finally starting to give out.

Esme plays several more songs afterwards, to finish out the set, then speaks over the fading bars of [ the last song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDK8QDL5QUg) . “Right, now that that’s over, it’s time for the other important shit: the news. The _real_ news. Which there is precious little of, actually. It’s been kind of a slow few days. Police caravans have been way down recently, though I dunno what for, or if they’re gonna go back to their usual levels soon. Best to run your errands now, while there’s less of a chance of gettin’ shot for no reason. Uhh, Maurice Cogburn has finally proven that what everyone _thought_ was the “Beast of Cochise” was actually just a very sick coyote, which is a shame because big spooky wolf-monsters are super cool. Hmm… Yeah, that’s about it. But, since I have another - let’s see - half-hour left, let’s talk about something else. Me, for example.”

Esme leans her elbows on her knees, hands clasped together. “On this special edition of the show, I’m gonna answer three of the questions I get most commonly asked. Such a special insight into my personality and psyche only comes around every so often, so listeners, you’ll be burdened with this special information about everyone’s favorite guerilla radio witch. Don’t tell anyone~!” She pauses. “...I’m jokin’, you can tell whoever. I don’t mind. Just as long as you don’t spill to any government folks. I’m not lookin’ to get disappeared anytime soon.”

 

“Anywho, one of the questions I get asked the most, usually after limping into somewhere - sometimes literally - to get patched up, is ‘Why did you decide to be a Ghost?’ And my answer’s always the same: someone has to. And that’s true, of course, someone’s gotta drive around and distribute good tunes and better information to the people of the Outlands. May as well be me. But, like… it’s also really fun. Feels like something out of a video game, y’know? Drivin’ around helpin’ people, sleepin’ in my car, and doing post-apocalyptic radio for a living.” She chuckles. “It had kind of a romantic air to it when I started, a sort of Robin Hood-esque dashingness. Nowadays I know better, but that’s not to say it isn’t rewardin’.”

“Another question, one that I’m not often asked but that I can tell everyone’s thinkin’, is this: who was I? Before the collapse, back in our pre-apocalypse society… Before I became a Ghost, who was I? I’m clearly old enough to have done something, though I am _definitely_ not as old as y’all seem to think, thanks very much.”

”As for the answer, well… I wasn’t anybody, really. First I was a little girl living in Ahwatukee, my head stuck in books and my mind off in other world. Then I was a college student down in Tucson, studyin’ anthropology and hopin’ I’d find a job that’d pay well enough to let me finally get my head and body fixed up. Then I was a government employee, helpin’ return Native artifacts that had been dug up, and tryin’ to negotiate with the sovereign tribes on everythin’ from borders to ceasefires. I made time somewhere in there to get fixed like I wanted to, thank God. Then… well, then the collapse happened. When I heard about Phoenix becomin’ a NERO project, I drove back there as quick as I could, and made it in by the skin a’ my teeth. I moved back in with my folks, reconnected with as many friends as I could, and settled in for a life under government watch.”

Esme sighs, clearly not having too much fun recounting this story. She puts on [ another song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CUtb7-VbXTc), though. It helps a bit.

 

“It wasn’t great. Surveillance everywhere, food rationin’, and the complete inability to go five feet without runnin’ inta some police patrol or military checkpoint, all with the itchiest trigger fingers known to man. Oftentimes their victims weren’t even doin’ anything, the bastards just had some grudge against Muslims, or Latinxs, or gay people, or what the hell ever. And they’d always get away scot-free too, because anyone who saw it and was foolhardy enough to try an’ report it either got stonewalled or ended up dead themselves. I’m just lucky I pass real good and know when to keep my head down, or else one a’ them coulda been me.”

“Eventually, it all got to be too much for me. The cameras, the censorship, the propaganda, the constant loomin’ threat of potentially bein’ killed if anyone ever found out who - or _what_ \- I was… it was all too much. I had a full-on breakdown, right out there in front a’ God and everybody. It was the first one I’d ever had. I’ll never forget what caused it.” Esme takes in a deep, shuddering breath, but plunges on anyway, speaking a bit quicker, a bit more anxious.

 

“It was a murder, plain and simple. I was on my way to get groceries, walkin’ down to the corner store, when I got to a new police checkpoint that hadn’t been there the day before. So, I got out my driver’s license, and readied myself for a battery of questions about who I was, what my business was, and so forth. And while I was standin’ there, answering these questions, I noticed another man talkin’ to the officer next to me.”

“Well, it was less like talkin’ and more like beggin’. He was bald, in his fifties or so, and had the darkest skin I’d ever seen on a person. He was dressed in fine clothing, a gray suit and matchin’ tie, and he was practically on his knees in front of this man. I couldn’t quite make out most of what he was sayin’, but one part in particular stuck out to me.”

“‘Please, you have to let me through. You have to let me see my son. He’s very sick, and his mother is gone, and I need to get through to take care of him. Please, for the love of God, let me see my son!’”

A sob starts to enter Esme’s voice. “That scene will forever be etched into my mind. Of this poor man, bein’ denied entrance for God knows what stupid fuckin’ reason, askin’ this police officer to provide this one thing for him, and that bastard just standin’ there, dead-eyed, _completely_ unmoved by the grown man bein’ driven to tears in front of him! God, even the _thought_ just…”

Esme takes a shaky breath, and presses on. “And then… God, and then. The guy puts his hand on the officer’s shoulder, looks into his eyes, and says, tears runnin’ down his face, ‘Please…’”

“That’s all he says. That’s all he was able to say. Because -” And here Esme bursts into tears, hot and angry - “Because that fuckin’ rat bastard shot ‘im right in the head!”

She just sits and cries for a bit, letting out the tears that she’s avoided for so long. After a minute or two, she audibly reins herself in and continues talking.

“I don’t actually remember what happened after that, but I heard what happened from the officer that I had been talkin’ to. They were a pretty decent person, as it turns out. Apparently, for me breakdowns are less ‘sobbin’ heap’ and more ‘berserker tears’.” She gives a little laugh-sob.

“I didn’t do very much damage to the fucker, but I still barely avoided gettin’ charged with attackin’ a police officer, somehow. Maybe that decent officer vouched for me or somethin’, I dunno. I’m white as mayonnaise and the only way you could maybe recognize me as bein’ trans without me tellin’ ya is that I’m 6’2”, so maybe that had somethin’ to do with it. Bottom line is, I ended up back home with no groceries and the sudden realization that I couldn’t keep livin’ there. ‘Specially not after what happened to the people who decided to protest the man’s unwarranted murder.”

“They didn’t get shot too, or anything, but there were definitely guns in play. Police used ‘em to intimidate all the protestors inta goin’ home with their tails between their legs. Can’t say I blame ‘em. I woulda done the same.”

“So, I texted all my friends and told ‘em to meet me under the bridge, next to the freeway, they knew the spot. Said I needed to talk.”

“Only two of ‘em managed to show up. One was my buddy Leggy, who lived close enough that he could just walk over. The other was someone y’all oughta know real well: my best friend and fellow Ghost, Agnes, who managed to make it through all the checkpoints on a bus, with the story that they were headin’ home for the night.”

“I told ‘em both my plan, which was to leave a note for my parents explainin’ what I’d done, load up my van with all the supplies I could grab, and get the hell outta dodge. I offered to bring ‘em both with me, too, if they wanted out. It shouldn’t’ve surprised me when they both said yes, really.”

“So, that night, we gathered up a buncha food and stuff, said our goodbyes, and all piled inta my van, in the guises of three teenagers lookin’ to have a good time.” A chuckle enters Esme’s voice briefly. “I dunno if it was divine providence or dumb luck or what, but eventually we made it out onto the freeway. It was practically deserted. Hell, the checkpoint there wasn’t even manned, we just blew right through. I’ve always wondered if they saw us and just didn’t care, or if they just didn’t notice we’d gone. Used to be I’d get all paranoid about bein’ followed out of Phoenix, but after so long without anythin’ happening, that fear’s been put to rest.”

“After we left the city, we stopped in the middle of the desert somewhere to catch our breath, soon as we thought we were safe. And after we did, I turned around and asked ‘em both, ‘What now?’”

 

“I knew my answer. I had heard about the Ghosts on a chat forum that was, on paper, hosted somewhere in Africa. The address was bounced around through almost two dozen places, so I didn’t know exactly where it was really hosted. It was tiny enough that nobody bothered to look at it too closely, besides. Anywho, I knew one of ‘em was already ‘round the Bisbee area, so I aimed to drive down there and ask to join up, and I told ‘em as much. Leggy said no, like I thought he would. He never was one for high-stress jobs. Although his current posting as mayor of Nogales may prove that incorrect. But Agnes… Agnes was all _over_ the idea. They said ‘Hell yeah!’ almost before I could finish speakin’! So, after we dropped Leggy off in Nogales at his sister’s place, me and Agnes drove down to Bisbee together to find this Ghost, a gentleman called Vimes.”

Esme’s voice softens. “It was… fun, in a way. We had always wanted to do a road trip of some kind, but never found the time. We laughed, sang, told jokes, and because we’re Gen Z kids, we had heart-to-heart chats and talked about our feelings. It was only a couple hours, instead of the multi-day trip we had always dreamed of, but those two hours will always be some of my fondest memories.” She pauses again, mind adrift in happy nostalgia.

“As for what happened after that… well, y’all know the story. We found him in Naco, pulled up to where he was stayin’, and started becomin’ proper Ghosts. And not a moment too soon, either, because the Coronado area desperately needed a Ghost, and as soon as he could, Vimes left us to our own devices and set off for Sonoita. We still meet up in Sonoita every so often, swap stories and drinks and stuff. Though the last time we talked, Agnes was still here…”

She sighs, again, and starts to speak again, more slowly. At this point, the song changes into something more [ resolute ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nuFi4KIVtqs).

“Which brings me to the third question, which I’ve been avoidin’ a bit. It’s somethin’ that I’ve been gettin’ asked a lot lately, and one I oughta respond to at some point. Even if I don’t know that anyone is listenin’.”

“Where’s Agnes?”

 

“As for the answer, it’s why I’m comin’ up from Cochise County in the first place. Agnes was… kidnapped, I guess, by… someone. God knows how they found us, or why they kidnapped Agnes instead of just shooting them on the spot, or even _who_ it was, but that’s what happened. I stepped out to take a leak one night outside Double Adobe, of all places, and when I came back, they were gone. Just like that.”

“Nobody in town knew what the hell had happened, and even though just about the whole place turned out to help me look, there wasn’t any trace. So, I did the only thing I could. Keep goin’.”

“I did the usual Ghost stuff for a while, but… it just wasn’t the same. We had been doin’ this together for almost 7 years. Doin’ it by myself… it felt like a piece of my soul was missin’. Honestly, I had just about given up hope of findin’ them.”

Esme’s voice changes, as a note of hope enters it. “But then, one of the greatest things to ever occur happened to me.”

“I got a lead.”

“I was over in Benson a few days back, droppin’ off a friend, Rincewind, who needed a ride. The whole time, he didn’t once ask about Agnes, and neither did I. I had resigned myself to bein’ alone at that point. But right as I was about to drop him off, he turned to me real quick and said, ‘I know where Agnes went.’”

“Now, y’all can imagine I was as shocked as can be, and I wanted to know just how in the _hell_ he knew that. But Rincewind didn’t even give me time to say anything. He told me that he had seen Agnes, clear as day, sittin’ in the back of an unmarked car headed up from Bisbee that was far too new to belong to anyone who lives out here. Shit, he even made eye contact with them, and from what he said, they looked terrified.”

“He also said the car was headed up to Phoenix.”

 

Esme’s voice hardens now, as the music swells behind it. “So, this is what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna drive up to Phoenix, all on my lonesome. I’m gonna sneak in, just like I snuck out all those years ago. I’m gonna find where Agnes is being kept, and I’m gonna free them and bring them back with me. Don’t anybody bother tryin’ to dissuade me, because it’s not happenin’. I am sick and goddamn tired of living in fear of these tyrannical shitlords, and I am gonna remind them that they’re not invincible. That we - _I_ \- can be even bigger a thorn in their sides if I wanna be. I swear to every deity that ever was, _I will free my friend!_ And if you’re listenin’ to this, you fed bastards, you’d best listen real hard to this next bit, because I’m only gonna say this once!”

She stops, and takes a couple deep breaths before continuing, almost at a whisper. “Mark my words, you kidnapping, civilian-shooting, wannabe dictator, family-destroying motherfuckers. _There. Will. Be. A. Reckoning._ ”

 

The music slowly fades out, and Esme doesn’t bother putting on another song. She’s suddenly worn out by this excess of emotion, this flood that she’s been bottling up for years and years, and which has only intensified in recent months.

“I’ve… never really told anyone this, to be honest. I’ve just kinda… bottled up all those feelings and let ‘em fester in my heart.” She chuckles. “Not the healthiest copin’ mechanism, I know, but it’s not like we have access to any good therapists out here.”

She’s silent for a minute, maybe more, the only sound being her soft breathing. Eventually, though, she gives a short sigh and speaks up again.

“Well, goodness, that went rather long, didn’t it? On a less grim note, the question I get the most, by far, is ‘Why the cloak and hat?’ And to that I say ‘Why not?’ Helps keep the sun off, keeps me warm in winter, and makes me feel better about not gettin’ my Hogwarts invitation as a kid.” She chuckles a bit at her own joke.

“Right, I think we’ll leave it there for now. Thanks very much for listenin’ to this very… _special_ episode of The Witching Hour tonight. I’ve been your host, Esme Weatherwax. The songs we- ... _I_ played tonight are, in order, ‘up in the air’ by xi, just like usual…”

She runs through all the songs she had played that night, voice deadened somewhat by fatigue. It’s getting fairly late, and Esme is quite looking forward to sleeping, all earlier thoughts of the creepiness of the neighborhood forgotten.

“...and the last song is ‘anukodok iakes on edakan uriem iekuuh’, by sweez. And with that, I’ll be heading to bed.” She stifles a yawn, mostly successfully. “Ooh, ‘scuse me. This has been Esme, broadcastin’ from a particularly dusty abandoned neighborhood, signin’ off. And as always, _carpe jugulum_.”

And with that, Esme goes off the air. She yawns again, not bothering to stifle it, and hangs her cloak and hat back up before opening the trunk and walking back around to the driver-side door, opening it, and reclining the seat back, until it nearly touches her radio equipment. She grabs a blanket out of the glove compartment and is asleep in minutes. Her last thought is of Agnes' face. In her mind, she reaches out to them. _I’m coming._

 

And outside, the dust and abandoned homes sit silently, and absorb her words.

 

\-----

 

Esme wakes up in the morning with a stiff neck and the sense that something has changed. She solves the first one by swiveling her head around, producing a loud _crack_ , then puts the blanket back in the glove compartment and gets out to inspect the car.

The change she felt is immediately apparent as she walks around to the front of her car. In the hood of the van, scratched into the paint, are two words.

“GOOD LUCK”

Esme stares at them for a while, mind racing. She hadn’t been woken up by anything last night. In fact, she’d slept more soundly than she had in a while, despite her previous feelings about how creepy this place was. But surely someone carving this into her car would have made _some_ noise. And there’s no paint chips, or scratches in the metal, or anything. It’s as if the paint was just… gone. Esme is all but certain that no human could have gotten it that smooth, or done it that quietly, unless they were _really_ slow about it. But there wasn’t anything else around here that could, either…

Esme stands there for a while, trying to work out just what the hell had happened. Eventually, though, she just sighs and mutters “Whatever,” and gets back in the car. But not before saying a cautious “Thank you.” Just in case the culprit is still listening.

She sits in the driver’s seat for a moment, not moving, before sighing shortly and turning on the ignition. The engine sputters to life, reminding her that she should probably go and find a mechanic somewhere. _For now, though,_ she thinks, _I’d better get to Globe and see if there’s anything I need to do there before movin’ on. Hopefully it’s not too far from here._

Before she goes, she plugs her phone into an aux cord and queues up [ a favorite song of hers ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tlAiq0_BXac) . As her van rumbles along the dusty road (which doesn’t seem so unfriendly anymore, in the sunlight), she sings along to the lyrics. She feels better about things, maybe. _It’s a start._

Down the abandoned freeway goes Esme, the revolutionary post-apocalyptic radio witch, on her way to free her best friend from the clutches of God-knows-who. And as she goes, she sings:

 

_I’ve been ghosting_

_I’ve been ghosting along_

_Ghost in your house,_

_Ghost in your arms…_


End file.
